


You pull the blackout curtains down/Just not for long

by EBDaydreamer



Series: Immortals [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 19:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12326955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EBDaydreamer/pseuds/EBDaydreamer
Summary: When Irene turns up at Sherlock's door years after he returns to Baker Street, he expects nothing more than their usual dinner. Yet Irene's mood drags up an old, unspoken memory.





	You pull the blackout curtains down/Just not for long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She showed up at his door, soaking wet, bruised and covered in glitter.

She showed up at his door, soaking wet, bruised, and covered in glitter.

“Bad day?” Sherlock joked as he took in the sight, retrieving her coat from where she’d dumped it on the floor as she’d stormed in. The coat itself was glitter free and not even that wet, meaning she’d gotten soaked before it had started raining.

“Just...don’t, Sherlock,” Irene snapped, running her finger through her knotted hair and slumping onto John’s seat. At least she wasn’t covering his chair in glitter.

Motionless, she gazed into the fire. Sherlock pretended to ignore her presence completely, resuming work on a case. He could try and pry information out of her, but he suspected she was on the verge on the rant as it was, so it would prove more time-efficient if he simply waited for her to talk.

After a few silent minutes, she got up and headed towards the bathroom. He soon heard running water and a faint half sigh half groan. Smirking, he put his work aside and grabbed his violin and began to play absentmindedly. It took him far too long to notice that he’d thoughtlessly been playing the song he composed fo- whilst he believed her dead. The song that he loathingly admits reminds him of her.

Irene came back into the room, hair tied on top of her head, draped in his blue dressing gown. The playing ceased, and he sat down opposite her, violin still in hand. 

Plucking at the strings, he began the questions; “It wasn’t raining outside.”

“A car splashed me. I got cold so I put the coat on.”

“Your bruises?”

“Let’s say I got into more physically dangerous trouble than usual and needed the comfort of London again.”

Raising his eyes from the instrument, he retorted, “I’d hardly call London comforting.”

“It’s the closest I ever got to home.”

Her eyes grew dark and solemn, so he let a few moments pass before asking his last question.

“The glitter?”

She snapped into focus, eyes meeting his and for a second, he truly believed that the eyes were the window to the soul, as he observed several intense emotions pass through her. Then it was over, and the gaze of steel returned.

“I sat next to a child on the plane.”

His fingers on the violin strings froze. His spine stiffened. Yes, that would make sense.

It had been three years since The Unspoken Incident.


End file.
